


The places we call home

by Lia (Liafic)



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liafic/pseuds/Lia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katara and Zuko learn that sometimes, the journey is more important than the destination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The places we call home

**1 : Village**

Zuko arrives on the first day of winter. In the grey twilight at the edge of the ice, his rowboat rises from the mist like a ghost. The southern water tribe has always told legends of spirits that come from the ocean, but the war brought about a new world where the approach of visitors recalls black ash and ice stained the colour of a tigerseal hunt. 

Katara does not hear the commotion at first—a rising swell of childish voices crowding at the edge of the ice. When she does, she finds herself inexplicably panicked, her pulse racing uncomfortably in her throat and the same thought racing through her mind over and over again: Please, not now. For Katara, the arrival of visitors is associated with the upheaval of everything she knows. 

She has hesitantly settled back into southern life over the past three years: she lays trap lines and weaves sinew, she teaches the children, she stokes the fires of her home and watches the smoke rise to the stars. With the awkwardness that always characterised his attempts at sensitivity, Sokka once asked her why she was becoming so attached to her postwar routine. 

“Are you just afraid of the future?” he said. He had just returned from a hunt and stood with the dull end of his spear embedded in the snow, his face still streaked with grey and blue war paint. 

“No, I’m not afraid,” she told him. “Maybe I’m just being cautious.” 

He looked at her for a moment longer before turning away, pulling back his hood as he muttered, “You’re starting to sound like Dad.” 

The conversation echoes in her mind as she pulls open the fur that covers her doorway. She breathes in and slowly sets down the awl she has been using for the past hour to pierce tigerseal hides, and the unfinished work is a promise that she will soon return. In the snow and semidarkness outside her home, she walks with the assured calm of a master water bender during peacetime, but her heart still races. 

The waves of relief that wash over her are almost painful when she reaches the gathering crowd and finds that there is only one visitor standing there at the edge of the ice. His hands are stuffed awkwardly into the pockets of his parka, and his breath rises in a cloud of steam through the icy air. When he pulls off his hood, Katara is running before she can stop herself. 

Zuko. His name is caught in her throat, and she slides over the ice in her indoor mukluks. Finally, she is pressed against his chest, inhaling the smell of coal fires and melted snow. 

“Whoa, easy,” he says in a whisper over her ear. She allows herself to close her eyes for just one moment, a long blink, as his arms settle into a warm circle around her waist. 

“How did you get here?” she asks, scanning the horizon and placing a restraining hand on the shoulder of a young boy who is peering up, trying to get a better look at the strange man who only has half a face. 

“I rowed for part of the way.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder. “I told them to anchor the ship behind one of those icebergs.” 

“Zuko, you didn’t need to do that.” 

“I thought pulling up in an icebreaker might have been in bad taste.” 

“Oh,” she says. For a second, she cannot meet his eyes. She is still stubborn, and it bothers her in some inexplicable way to know that he knew she would assume the worst if he arrived as he did four years ago, impersonally and at the head of a naval ship. “Thank you,” she finally says. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

The children of the tribe have slowly lost interest in the exchange and drift slowly back to their mothers and grandmothers, who stand huddled in a group by the fire. 

“Where is everyone?” Zuko asks. Sokka has yet to materialise, and the village remains deserted. The empty hide tents shudder in the wind, silhouetted darkly against the bruised sky. 

“A hunting expedition,” Katara says. “The ice is solid, and the men left a few days ago.” 

“I guess I came at the wrong time,” he says, glancing over at the women by the fire. They are not afraid, but they stand with a certain tension that Katara has come to recognise as that of mother animals, coiled to protect their young. 

“You came to see Sokka?” she says. 

“No, I—Katara, can we take this conversation inside?” 

She hesitates for a moment before taking his hand and ignoring the curious stares of her people as she guides Zuko through the darkness. His palm burns hot, like the flint Bato uses to shape the skeleton of a canoe, and his fingers curl against hers. 

“I’ve never seen the inside of your home before,” he says later as they sit on the hides spread out over the ground. The smell of jasmine is strong in the air, mingling with the smoke and bringing to mind memories of nights spent crouched around the fire of a hidden temple. “I didn’t know you could gather jasmine this far south.” 

“It was a gift from Iroh,” Katara replies. “He visits, by the way.” 

“He does?” 

“Every four months, with the cargo ship that brings the imports from Ba Sing Se.” She pours out two cups and hands one to Zuko, who runs his fingers absentmindedly over the design carved into the handle. It is the subtle outline of a snow bear, partially submerged in the tea, as if the animal were returning to the ocean after a breath of cold air. 

“I didn’t know that,” he says. “Would you rather I hadn’t come?” He is looking down and does not meet her eyes, but he asks with a carelessness that seems affected even to her, as if he could not care less how she answers. 

“Zuko, it’s not—just, why are you here?” 

“I’ve been meaning to come for a while.” 

“I suppose you think that should mean so much.” 

“I’ve been kind of busy governing a nation, Katara,” he says. 

“You’re not the only one who has had to deal with the fallout from the war, you know,” she says. It comes out much more harshly than she intended, and she glances away from him before he can read her expression. 

“I know that,” he says. 

She sighs. “I’m sorry. You must understand why it’s disconcerting to see you here so suddenly.” 

His eyes reflect the fire, and she catches a sudden flash of white teeth. “Whatever happened to the fabled hospitality of the Water Tribe?” 

“Maybe you’d rather my gran-gran were here to greet you?” she returns. 

“Oh, definitely not.” 

From where she sits across the fire, Katara smiles into her tea. “Why did you really come, Zuko?” she says after a moment. Their eyes meet briefly before he looks away. 

“I found a letter from my mother in the palace archives.” He says it plainly, as though it could be the beginning of a longer explanation, but he says nothing else. 

“What kind of letter was it?” she finally asks. 

“The kind that was written three years ago and never made it into my hands.” 

“What did it—what did she say?” 

He is tracing the stones that surround the hearth, heating each one until it glows white and slowly fades back to dull grey. “She heard that I joined the Avatar and said she would be waiting for me in Ba Sing Se.” 

“You think she’s still waiting there,” she says, wishing he would just turn to face her. 

“Maybe. No. I don’t know, Katara.” 

There is something tight in her throat, in her chest, some nameless feeling, something like sadness-nervousness-excitement for which she has no words. It feels like things are moving too fast. She does not want an adventure right now, and she speaks without thinking. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“You know why,” he says, glancing back toward her. 

“Because you want me to come to Ba Sing Se with you? I wish you hadn’t told me any of this, Zuko. I honestly wish . . . My life has gone back to normal, close to normal or whatever, and now you come here and ask me to go with you knowing that I could never say no?” 

“I know this is selfish of me, but I need to ask you.” 

“Please, don’t—” 

“Katara, you are the only person who understands why I need to do this.” He is talking before she can interrupt, and she is clenching the edge of a tigerseal hide in her fist, her eyes tracing the outline of every block of ice that makes up the bones of her home. “If you say no, then the ship is ready to leave tonight and I won’t bother you any more,” he says. 

Katara closes her eyes and breathes deeply, filling her lungs with the cold. Distantly, she remembers Sokka after the hunt, remembers him saying, “You’re starting to sound like Dad.” The last time she left the south, she was gone for almost a year, and she realises she does not know when she will taste this air again. She wants to paint her lips with the taste of ice and saltwater so she does not forget. “Zuko, you know I’m not going to say no,” she finally says. 

**2 : Southern sea**

The first few days pass slowly, the landscape gliding by the ship in miles upon miles of unchanging pack ice lit by the pinks and oranges of sunrises for a few hours every day. Katara finds herself drifting in and out of sleep now that she does not have the numbing repetition of physical labour to keep her up during the long hours of darkness. She is warmer than she remembers having been in months, surrounded by a cocoon of silk blankets. 

She has grown used to the cold again, she realises, and she wonders whether she is capable of blending into the teashops and transit trains of Ba Sing Se like she once did. Her skin is still raw from scraping pelts, and she clings to the memory of the unfinished work she has left behind. She does not want to get caught up in the warmth and the excitement only to have to learn to adjust to normalcy all over again. 

She awakens to a dull thudding sound on the steel door, and a moment passes before Zuko leans in. This is the first time in days that she has seen him without the bulk of his parka, and his shoulders are slim under his robe in the thin shaft of light from the hallway. Katara blinks and exhales, pulling the blankets up over her bare neck. 

“Were you sleeping?” Zuko says. 

“Maybe.” She sits up, running the back of her hand over her eyes. “How early is it?” 

“Early,” he says. “Come on. I have something to show you.” 

When they emerge onto the deck, the sky is dark violet and the cold air bursts out across her skin, whipping her hair into her mouth when she tries to speak. Fire sconces flicker in the mouth of the cabin behind them, casting their shadows long over the deck, but the water is a black abyss below them, a rushing echo of waves. For a moment, she waits with raised eyebrows, but he tilts his head toward the sea. 

“Just listen for a second,” he says. 

Katara closes her eyes and focuses on sounds: the currents of cold air, the hull of the ship cutting through the water. Behind it all, so faint that she almost cannot hear it, is a deep and resonant hum that travels through her body like a vibration. She leans out over the rail, and his palm ghosts along her shoulder before filling with fire, flickering out over the water beneath them. There, amid the ice and the white caps of the waves, glistening shapes glide through the water. 

“What are they?” he asks. It comes out as a whisper, and she wonders whether most of the crew is still asleep. 

“Ice whales,” she says, leaning out further. Her skin is immediately covered in salty ocean spray. “Have we been following them long?” 

“We’ve been travelling along the shoreline. They seem to have the same plan.” 

“The hunting team should be able to find them,” she says. “It takes almost all the men of the tribe to bring down even one animal, but it lasts us through the winter.” 

Later, Katara thinks that maybe the spirit of the ice whale was guiding them, because when the sun rises, the ice on the shoreline is brilliant white and blue, and in the distance, she can make out the dark shapes of canoes huddled together against the shore. 

“We should stop for a while,” Zuko says. “Pay them a visit.” 

Katara nods into the fur lining of her hood. “Let’s invite everyone on board,” she says, and when Zuko laughs, as though he is surprised, as though it has been pulled from him involuntarily, she realises that she has been missing the sound. 

. 

Sokka takes the news of her departure better than expected. 

“You’re taking her where to do what?” He waves his spear through the air for emphasis, and Katara finds herself ducking every time he uses it to punctuate his sentences. Beside him, Hakoda pulls back his wolf-headed hood to reveal black and grey war paint, and he places a calm hand on his son’s shoulder. 

“Katara, I fully approve,” he says. “You haven’t had any adventure in a while.” 

“It’s not an adventure,” Katara starts. 

“You decided to go on an adventure without telling me?” Sokka interjects. 

“Exactly why would I tell you?” 

The group is gathered on the deck of the ship, their faces lit by fire as they share an unusual meal, a mix of Fire Nation spices and the smoked fish brought aboard by the hunting team. There was an awkward moment when Katara realised she was the only woman present, but her sudden worry quickly vanished when everyone pushed her to the head of the table. 

“Women are served first in the Fire Nation,” Zuko explained as he spooned herb-seasoned rice into her bowl. 

“That’s one custom I can agree with,” Katara replied. 

For now, she talks to Sokka and savours what might be her last taste of home for a while, reassuring her brother that this is a journey she has to take for herself, absolutely no fun will be had without him, et cetera. A very distant part of her mind can hear Zuko going over the details of an international trade agreement with her father. So much has changed over the years, and she now sees the men of her family as equals, the lines of her father’s face now mirrored in Sokka. She no longer has the burning need she once had to argue with her brother. For some reason, hearing his voice raised in indignation reminds her of being home, and she feels at peace. 

“Fine,” Sokka finally says, “but I don’t have to like it.” 

“No one said you had to like it,” Katara says. She knows he is just being stubborn. 

Later, someone passes a flask around, and Katara watches her brother laughing with the crew of Zuko’s ship and feels the absence of war settle over her shoulders. She leans against the rail of the ship and drifts into a calm state of acceptance, listening to the waves lap against the hull. Someone is playing the tsuungi horn, and the folk song sounds vaguely familiar. When she opens her eyes, Zuko is walking over to her, silhouetted by the fire behind him. The hard edges of his face have relaxed over the evening, and she reaches over to take the wooden cup he holds toward her. 

“It’s mei wine,” he says. 

She hums a reply, and when she drinks, it tastes fruity and warm on her lips. The two stand in silence until the chill that has worked its way between the layers of her fur parka is warmed away. 

“Have you really been at the South Pole for the past two years?” he finally says. 

“It’s not a bad thing,” she replies. 

“I didn’t say it was.” 

“I know, it’s just that—there’s been a lot to do at home. After Gran-gran left for the North Pole with Master Pakku, I just took her place without really noticing.” 

“You’ve done a really good job,” he says. “With the tribe, I mean. The village has grown since the last time I saw it.” 

“Three years ago?” 

“Yes, but—your people seem stronger, not so afraid.” 

“A lot has changed since then,” she says, and she closes her eyes, breathing in the cool air and listening to the tsuungi horn. The song has changed, and the melody brings back a flood of memories: she has heard Iroh play it before as he sat amid the children of the Water Tribe on his last visit. “This song . . .” 

“It’s called Solh,” Zuko says. “It’s the word for peace in the old language of the Fire Nation, before the islands unified.” He is looking down into the water as he speaks, his arms crossed over the railing and his shoulders bent. From this angle, Katara can see only the scarred side of his face, the violent colours that bloom like a bruise under his skin. Looking at him, she suddenly remembers a different time, a different conversation. 

_It’s just that for so long now, whenever I would imagine the face of the enemy, it was your face._

_My face. I see._

She swallows hard, pushing back the tightness that burns in her throat and behind her eyes as the song of the tsuungi horn drifts into silence. “Fire Nation songs are so sad,” she says quietly, and she leans back until the stars are spread out above her, a thousand tiny lights, and she feels like she might fall into the sky. 

. 

The hunting party disembarks early the next morning as the sun rises in pale white over the horizon. Sokka runs his hand across his eyes and shakes the sleep from his mind as he claps a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “The next time you visit the Water Tribe, remind me that I owe you a party,” he says. 

“You know I’ll hold you to that,” Zuko answers. 

“And you,” Sokka mutters, looking at Katara, “be careful. Always.” He is hugging her, crushing her against his chest. 

“You’re starting to sound like Dad,” she whispers. 

He laughs quietly. “Maybe I am.” 

When the ship begins to pull farther and farther into the open ocean, Katara stands at the bow and waves until the figures of her brother and father, and the men of her tribe, blur and fade out of view on the horizon. 

**3 : Ba Sing Se**

The city is different than she remembers. The first thing Katara notices, when they pass through the stone gates of the outer wall, is that it seems bigger somehow and that she never remembered the streets having been this crowded. 

“They’re taking the walls down,” Zuko says from beside her. 

He is right. When Katara looks closer, she can see that the inner walls of the city are slowly being disassembled so that jagged peaks of cracked stone rise out of the rubble like mountains, and the air is thick with dust. “About time,” she mutters, pulling a cloth from her pocket and tying it across her mouth to keep out the worst of the debris. 

“You look like a grandmother,” he says. 

“At least I can breathe,” she replies. 

After a few minutes, he grudgingly pulls out a cloth of his own and struggles with the knot behind his head for a second before they can keep walking. 

“Look, all the locals are wearing one.” Katara gestures at the people who pass by them on the street. Some boys are kicking a ball down the winding alleyway, and two women haggle over the price of cabbages with a harried vendor. “We’ll blend in more this way.” 

They stop in front of a nondescript doorway in what used to be the lower ring. Flowers grow by the step, and lace curtains hang in the window. Zuko looks at the paper in his hand one more time before folding it perfectly down the centre. 

“Is this the place?” Katara says. He nods, and she marches up to the doorway and knocks. 

“Wait,” Zuko hisses, but the door swings open to reveal an old man. 

“What do you want?” the man yells, although his smile is pleasant and he seems genuinely curious. Katara wonders if he is going deaf. 

“Is there a woman who lives here?” she asks. She has to repeat herself again before understanding dawns on his face. 

“The young Miss Bei Fong?” he shouts. 

“The who?” Zuko chokes. 

“You are looking for my landlord?” the man yells, smiling and pointing at a building that rises out of the rubble of the upper ring. “Miss Bei Fong lives there.” 

“Oh,” Zuko says. 

Katara grabs his arm and begins pulling him away from the house. “Thank you so much!” she calls behind her, and the man gives a deep bow before closing the door. Katara drags Zuko up the streets, toward the looming tower. 

“This is too much,” he mumbles under his breath. 

When they ring the gong at the door of the mansion that is apparently Toph’s new residence, they are greeted by a familiar face. 

“Teo?” Katara says. This is the last person she was expecting to see, but she leans down to embrace him, and Zuko gives him a curt nod before they are ushered inside. 

“What are you two doing in the city?” Teo says, wheeling along the corridor to a small room set into the wall. In his lap are what seem to be dozens of scrolls, a wooden ruler and various drawing implements. 

“We’re on a bit of a mission,” Katara says. “We need to see Toph urgently.” 

“Well, you definitely came at the right time,” he says, pausing outside the door. “She’s going to be back any minute. I’ll show you upstairs.” 

They walk into the room, and Katara expects him to open another door, but instead the door to the hall closes behind them, and when Teo pulls a lever in the floor, it starts to move. 

“What . . . ?” Katara starts. 

Teo laughs at her expression. “It’s a lift. So much more space efficient than stairs,” he explains before gesturing down to his chair. “Not to mention more convenient.” 

“So . . . do you work with Toph?” Zuko says as the lift slowly ascends. 

Teo nods. “She’s spearheading the project to tear down the walls between the rings,” he says. “They needed a qualified architect, and she figured I was the best person for the job.” 

“Congratulations!” Katara says. “You’re enjoying it?” 

He pushes open the door and guides them into another hallway, and they head toward a large gilded door. “I love it,” he says, and Zuko coughs into his fist. Teo looks away, and Katara thinks that maybe he is blushing, but she cannot tell. 

Teo pushes open the door at the end of the hall to reveal a lushly upholstered sitting room with large windows that look out to expansive gardens. The only time that Katara has seen wealth like this was when they were living in the upper ring themselves, and her breath catches in her throat. 

“This is all very . . . unlike Toph,” Zuko says. 

“Yup,” comes a voice from behind them. “Pops decorated everything himself.” 

Katara spins around to see Toph standing in the doorway, her feet planted firmly apart and her hands on her hips. 

“Can’t give a girl a little advance notice?” Toph says, marching into the room. “I would have messed the place up a bit.” But then Zuko is hugging her tightly, and Katara gets her on the other side and says, “Toph sandwich!” and she is smiling, her milky eyes wide. 

Later, Teo leaves to supervise the destruction of a wall near the palace, and they sit around a low table, eating a lunch that Toph insisted on providing. 

“What was so important that you rushed here from the South Pole?” she says. 

“We visited a building earlier today, and the man who lives there said you were the landlord,” Katara explains. 

“Oh, yeah, the real estate game,” Toph says. “Very profitable.” 

“That isn’t why we’re here,” Zuko says. “The tenant who used to live in that building, do you know where she is now?” 

Toph frowns. “Oma left a few days ago. She was such a good tenant, and she made the best baozi. . . .” 

Beside her, Katara feels Zuko inhale sharply. 

“Okay!” Toph suddenly yells. “What is going on with you two? Zuko, you’re so tense I can feel it from here.” 

Zuko sighs and looks over at Katara. 

“Toph . . .” she starts, but Zuko’s hand is over hers, and he interrupts her. 

“That woman, the one who was calling herself Oma?” His fingers are pressing hers so tightly that it hurts, but she squeezes back. “She’s my mother,” he says. 

Toph suddenly goes still, and she remains that way for a moment before she calmly sets down her cup of tea. “Oh, Sparky,” she says, and she sighs. “Of course she is.” 

. 

The streets are dark by the time they leave the Bei Fong estate. Vendors light their lanterns and put candles in their windows so the alley where they walk seems to glow with warm light. 

“We can stay with Uncle tonight,” Zuko says. “If Toph is right about where my mother is heading, we can catch up with the refugee ship at Kyoshi Island.” He speaks slowly, as though he is laying out the plan for an invasion or a tigerseal hunt, but Katara can tell he is anything but calm. She doesn’t say anything. She knows the feeling. 

When they reach the Jasmine Dragon, Iroh is waiting in front of the shop as though he was expecting them. “My nephew!” he cries, rushing forward to embrace Zuko. “And young miss Katara, as well! A great surprise.” 

“Uncle . . .” Zuko says. Under the dust of the city, Katara can see that despite the frown that mars his mouth, Zuko has suddenly been transformed into a young boy before his uncle. “Toph told you, didn’t she?” 

Iroh’s face is stern, and he steps back and pulls aside the screen door to the shop. “Please come inside,” he says. “The customers will forgive this old man for closing early tonight.” 

He pours them tea and listens to Zuko’s story about how he found the letter and is trying to track down Ursa, how they have travelled halfway across the world. Katara feels herself drifting, everything muffled as though she is on the verge of sleep, and her muscles ache from the strain of exhaustion. Later, the walk up the stairs is a blur, but when she pulls the cool covers of the bed over her shoulders, she realises she can’t sleep at all. Zuko is sleeping on a mat on the floor beside the bed, and she turns to him. 

“Zuko,” she whispers. “Are you awake?” 

“Hmm? Yes.” 

She leans over, and he lights a candle with a flick of his hand. For a few moments, they lie in silence, and the flame plays over the unscarred skin of his face. “Why did you come to me first?” Katara finally says. 

“Why are you asking?” 

“Because Iroh didn’t even know about this. I just assumed he did, but before Toph sent word tonight, he didn’t even know you were looking for your mother. So why did you tell me?” 

“Would you rather I hadn’t?” he says. 

“No, Zuko—it’s just that we went through so much together, but it’s been over a year since I’ve seen you.” 

“Like it’s been over a year since you’ve seen Aang,” he says, and though he frames it as a question, it comes out with something more bitter. 

“That’s different,” she says. 

“Because it’s Aang?” 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” She sits up, and soon he is sitting up, too. 

“Then why don’t you tell me what you mean?” he says. 

“I mean, why does it take something monumental for you to want to see me?” 

“It doesn’t—for the same reason you didn’t leave the South Pole for two years.” He sighs. 

“Oh, and why was that?” 

“Because it was too hard.” 

“That wasn’t it at all—” 

“You want to know why I never see you? Because it’s difficult. Because I’m—I am still _guilty_.” 

“Zuko . . .” 

“No, you don’t—I know you’ve suffered so much, and I can’t think about it because I know that it was my people, and I’m going to carry it every day . . .” He stops suddenly and breathes as though he is coming up from underwater or suffocating, and she can’t look at him, so she looks over at the flame of the candle and blinks back the tears that she will not let fall. 

“Is that how you feel when you’re with me?” she says. It comes out as barely more than a whisper. 

“Katara . . .” 

“No,” she says. “No. I’m not your conscience, and I won’t make you martyr yourself.” 

“Katara, I’m sorry.” 

“What are you apologising for? It’s not your fault. None of it was your fault. Is that what you needed to hear?” 

“Please . . .” 

“It’s done, Zuko. The war is over.” She turns away. “Just go to bed.” 

She hears him exhale and imagines his chest rising and falling under the blanket. For a moment, she wants nothing more than to reach out and take it all back: her words, the war, everything. She wonders whether he has closed his eyes, and she runs her hand across hers and holds her lip between her teeth. She waits for him to put out the candle, but darkness never comes, and she lies awake for a long time. 

**4 : Kyoshi Island**

It is raining when they reach Kyoshi Island, a torrential downpour that soaks Katara’s clothes. Zuko comments that this is the monsoon season, and Katara wrings her hair out and watches the water drip to the sand. He seems determined to act like their conversation on the last night in Ba Sing Se never happened, and she is more than happy to oblige. After they find his mother, she plans to return to the south and never speak to him again. 

There are no other ships in the bay when they disembark onto the shoreline, the sand painted red by the sunset. Slowly, Kyoshi villagers appear at the tree line, coming out onto the beach in small groups. Katara wonders whether they are remembering the destruction of their village, whether they too still treat every visitor with caution. 

“Katara?” comes a voice from off to her left, and she scans the approaching group to see a familiar face. 

“Oh, Suki!” 

They are embracing, and Katara is suddenly barely unable to stop herself from crying. She is breathing in gasps, and Suki is patting her on the back and taking it all in stride. 

“Come on,” Suki says. “Everything’s okay.” 

“I know, I know,” Katara says. “I’ve just been travelling for so long.” 

As they walk through the village, the sun dips lower in the sky, and paper lanterns flicker to life in the trees overhead. Suki guides them up to the training longhouse of the Kyoshi warriors, where the walls are strung with shoji screens and scrolls painted in black ink. 

“A royal visit?” comes a voice from behind them, unmistakably sarcastic. When Katara turns, she cannot recognise the figure standing there, a tall girl with long, dark hair, dressed in full warrior regalia, but Zuko can. 

“Mai?” he says. 

“Don’t be so shocked,” she replies. “It’s not a good look for you.” 

“Is this awkward?” Suki says. 

“It’s all right, you know,” Mai says. “You can come in.” Then she laughs, and Katara is sure she has never seen Mai laugh before. Because she is doing it, it becomes contagious. 

“Oh, just look at us,” Suki says. “Our love lives are like a bad kabuki—I can’t even keep track.” 

As they gather on the woven mats in the centre of the longhouse, Suki brings in a tray of tea, and Katara explains the situation. 

“If I had known . . .” Suki says. “The refugee ship was just stopping over here. It left this morning.” 

“Do you know where it was heading?” Zuko says. 

“No,” Suki starts, but Mai interrupts her. 

“The captain didn’t say, but I was talking to someone who said they were heading to Shu Jing.” 

“Shu Jing in the Fire Nation?” Katara says. 

“You know it?” 

“Mm-hmm,” Katara answers. “During the war, we went there for Sokka to train under the master swordsman Piandao.” 

“Then that’s where Ursa will be,” Mai says. 

Zuko is silent, and Katara feels like she has to ask, so she speaks quickly. “Do you want to leave right away?” 

“I . . .” Zuko starts. 

Suki looks quickly between him and Katara before she interrupts. “Please stay for just tonight!” she says. “We’re having a festival to celebrate Avatar Kyoshi—” 

“We are?” Mai says, but Suki shoots her a look and continues. 

“Yes, we are,” she says, “and we’d love for you to stay.” 

. 

“Lovers’ spat?” 

Katara turns around to see Mai standing behind her, arms crossed over her chest. “No,” she says. “It’s not like that.” 

“You could’ve fooled me.” Mai hands her a cup of wine and leans beside her against the longhouse. 

The village has gathered together in the firelight, and though Katara suspects the festival was put together at the last minute, they are enjoying themselves and the mood is contagious, even though her argument with Zuko still makes her feel tense and cold. Because she didn’t have anything nice to wear, Suki lent her a silk kimono, and for now Katara is afraid to move in case she trips and damages it. 

“What does the Avatar think about all of this?” Mai says. 

“Aang? He doesn’t know. I haven’t seen him in over a year.” 

“Really? I thought you two were . . .” 

“No,” Katara says. “Things change. But you know that.” 

Mai takes a long drink. Her eyes are dark in the light of the fire from the village below, glassy and deep like a lake. She points up to a constellation that Katara vaguely recognises. “You know, in the Fire Nation we call that constellation Jauza, the warrior. Whenever I saw those stars—you know, it’s kind of silly now, but I thought of Zuko.” 

Katara listens quietly, tracing the pattern of stars over the sky. 

“If someone had told me back then that I would end up a Kyoshi warrior, I wouldn’t have believed them,” Mai says. 

“A lot has changed,” Katara replies, and Mai hums into her cup. 

“Whatever’s going on with you and Zuko, we’ve all been through a lot to get to a point where a friendship like yours could even happen.” 

“I’m worried about him,” Katara says. “I’m mad at him, too, but mostly worried. He’s carrying a lot of guilt, and I don’t think anyone ever taught him to forgive himself.” She looks at Mai for a second, but she is nodding, and Katara continues. “I mean, after the war, Aang went through a lot before he could forgive himself for all of those—for all the people we killed, all of us. But he had us there to help him.” 

“You and Aang aren’t friends anymore?” 

“No, we’re still friends. It’s just that none of us were old enough to understand that going through a lot of bad things together doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to end up together. You know?” 

“I know,” Mai says. “But Zuko isn’t Aang.” 

“No, he’s not,” Katara says. “He tried to get through it all alone.” 

Mai pushes herself off the wall and turns to look Katara in the eyes. Something in the harsh line of her mouth makes Katara worry that she’s upset, but then her shoulders sag and she smiles gently. “You should be having this conversation with him,” she says before walking away. 

“Mai, wait,” Katara yells. “I don’t know if anyone has told you this, but you’re a really good listener.” 

Mai never turns around, but Katara thinks she hears her laughing. There is the sound of footsteps retreating over the earth, then silence, and Katara sighs and breathes in the smell of wine and smoke. 

**5 : Shu Jing**

They leave Kyoshi Island early the next morning while it is still dark, and by the light of the lanterns, Katara embraces Suki and Mai and promises to visit. 

“We got up this early for you, so you’d better,” Mai says, and Suki turns and smiles with so much happiness that the sight makes Katara turn away and close her eyes. She remembers the times they spent huddled around a campfire in the wilderness, when each day was a new battle, and she thinks about how much and how little things have changed. 

When they reach Shu Jing, the waterfalls and the forest of the small island are alight with the rising sun, and even though she has seen this place before, Katara finds her breath caught in her throat, struck by the almost painfully hopeful feeling that everything is new: the trees, the steel of the ship, the birds flying overhead. Everything has led up to this moment, and she is exactly where she is supposed to be. The trees and the mountains tower over them until Katara feels like the smallest person on earth. 

“There are no roads up to Piandao’s estate, so we have to walk,” she explains. 

“We’d better get started,” Zuko replies. 

When they have been walking for hours and Katara’s legs are burning, her eyes blurring in the humidity and her hair plastered against her forehead, Zuko suddenly speaks. 

“I’m . . . sorry,” he says, speaking between breaths. “About our . . . fight in Ba Sing Se.” 

She almost wants to laugh, because they are both so out of shape and because this is the worst possible time to be having this conversation, but mostly out of relief that she didn’t have to speak first. 

“Zuko,” she says. “Zuko . . . stop.” 

They stand there panting for what seems like an endless amount of time before Katara has finally caught her breath. “I don’t want to fight with you,” she says. 

“I didn’t mean to say those things,” he starts. 

“It’s okay. Zuko, we went through so much in the war, and it’s unfair to expect you to just forget about all of it.” 

“But it’s not fair to you, either.” 

“Life isn’t fair,” she says, quoting her gran-gran, “but we’re friends. We can’t keep on blaming one another.” 

“I don’t blame you.” 

“I know you don’t, but I want you to know that I don’t blame you, either. I never have.” 

“But back then, under Ba Sing Se, you said—” 

“I know what I said, and it was horrible and I shouldn’t have said it. But I said it out of anger.” 

“I don’t think of you as my conscience,” he says suddenly. “You said—you said you’re not my conscience, and I want you to know that I don’t see you like that. I see you as my friend, and you’re kind and caring, and you don’t let me get away with anything—” 

“Zuko . . .” 

“I’m sorry. You understand me better than anyone, and that’s why I came to you when I found the letter. You wanted to know, and I’m telling you: that’s why I went to you first.” 

“No, Zuko,” she says. “Look.” She is pointing over the crest of the hill, because there, through the trees, is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. 

“Is that Piandao’s estate?” Zuko says. 

They are both laughing, and Katara is crying. Her knees can’t hold her up, and they are both half kneeling on the ground. “Oh, we’re finally here. Zuko, we’re finally—I don’t think I could have walked another step!” 

. 

Piandao opens the door as though he has been expecting them. “You’ve come to see Ursa?” he says, and for a second Zuko looks lost. Suddenly, impulsively, Katara is taking his hand and answering for him. 

“We’ve been looking for her for almost a month,” Katara says. “So yes, we’d like to see her, please.” 

Piandao laughs and pats his hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “She’s waiting in the garden,” he says, and he begins to guide them through the pagoda. 

The whole time they are walking, Zuko presses her fingers between his own, and she finds herself talking. 

“It’s going to be okay,” she is saying. “She’s your mother, and you can finally see her.” 

“I’m not the same person I was when she left,” he says. 

“Neither is she.” 

“But I’ve done—I’ve been waiting for so long. If she doesn’t even want to see me . . .” 

“She’s your mother, Zuko, and she loves you.” 

They walk out from under the shade of the pagoda and into the warm sunlight. Overhead, a flock of small birds takes flight as a figure stands in the centre of the garden, and Zuko’s hand slips out from her own. For one infinite moment, the entire world stills. Then Ursa sweeps forward and holds Zuko as though she will never let go. 

He speaks in gasps. “Mom, I looked, I never stopped looking. I just didn’t—I never stopped . . .” 

“Oh, Zuko,” she says. “I know. You don’t need to say anything. I know.” 

Katara feels a hand on her shoulder and looks over to see Piandao smiling at her. It reminds her of her father so much that everything blurs in watery sunshine and she can’t help it: she is laughing and crying all at the same time. 

Later, Zuko and Ursa sit together for a long while behind the closed screens of the pagoda. Their voices are quiet, and Katara wonders whether they are telling each other everything. She knows they share memories of a dark palace and columns of fire, but the past seems out of place here on an island where the waterfalls reflect sunlight in rainbows of colour. Maybe here, so far from everything else, Zuko is finally learning to forgive himself. 

Katara and Piandao wait in the garden, and after a while, she begins to show him her bending forms just to pass the time. He asks how Sokka is doing, and they talk together as the sun sets. Laughing, he tells her he still has the painting her brother made all those years ago. 

When Zuko returns and stands waiting in the archway, his eyes are red and his face is pale, but he smiles. They walk through the gardens for a long time, and Katara runs her fingers over the leaves as they pass, bending the water in the ponds into animal shapes and feeling like she can breathe for the first time. 

“Thank you,” Zuko says, breaking their long silence. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” she says. 

“I know, but I want to.” 

They keep walking until they are in a smaller pagoda, lit with lanterns that reflect coloured light on the water. Katara leans on the railing and looks down into the pond, where the koi are swimming circles around each other and painting bright patterns with their movements. 

“Isn’t this just like the Spirit Oasis?” Katara says. 

“You rise with the moon . . .” 

“And you rise with the sun.” 

Her voice catches in her throat on a breathy laugh as he reaches over, brushing her hair away from her face. She is suddenly conscious of how tangled it is, how they are both still dirty from the hike, and he has the darkest shadows under his eyes, but the world is at peace, and the night is warm, and they are here together. 

“Zuko . . .” 

“Hold still,” he says. He is still holding the lock of her hair, weaving it through his fingers like a dark silk ribbon, and he is tilting his head down until she could just move forward . . . His lips are warm, and he smells like smoke and rain. They are still for a moment until she finds herself smiling, and his teeth flash in the firelight. 

“Is this all right?” he says. 

“Mm-hmm,” she answers, her voice a hum. She presses his fingers between her own and closes her eyes, listening to the sound of the ocean in the distance, all the creatures of the forest fluttering awake in the darkness. Maybe peace is an ember that flickers inside them, or the sound of ice floes drifting in the mist, or the dust of walls crumbling to the earth. Maybe, after everything else, peace is knowing they have all the time in the world to figure it out.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] The places we call home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/949269) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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